Dedication

To The Little Cupcake Bakeshop in New York City, who to this day, has still made the best cupcake I’ve ever eaten.

Blue velvet and mascarpone will forever haunt my dreams.

* * *

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Readers,

Knot Your Damn Omega is not a book that’s meant to be dark. However, there are still things which some reader’s might find objectionable or difficult to read, including primal play, and strong portrayals of grief. If you feel like this could be a problem for you, please protect yourself. No work of fiction is worth your mental health.

The full list of content warnings is available on my website.

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

________

ESME

The man in the suit across from me smelled like burnt popcorn. And not the good kind, when movie theater butter caramelized and gave you that weird but delicious bitter smell. No, this guy smelled like when you left the popcorn bag in the microwave too long, and when you opened it, half the bag was blackened and charred, and you were lucky the whole thing wasn’t on fire.

It was an effort not to wrinkle my nose.

The other three Alphas were similar. Honestly, if I didn’t look too closely at them they could be carbon copies of each other. Dark suits, neat hair, and smiles that looked as expensive as their watches.

All of their scents were off. Not all of them were outright bad, and I knew well enough some lucky Omega out there was going to get a whiff of burnt popcorn and scream fuck yeah take me now.

That Omega just wasn’t me.

Even if their scents were sending me into a state of orgasmic bliss, I wouldn’t choose this pack. Because they weren’t actually interested in me. If they were, maybe I’d get closer to examine their scents in detail and see if I could make it work. But they weren’t.

I tuned back in to what Katarina was saying. She was wearing a perfectly tailored pink suit, hair tied up in a shiny updo, and was holding her clipboard with manicured hands I would never be able to function with. Even my mother was dressed up where she sat on the other end of the couch. I was the one out of place in jeans in a t-shirt, but I wasn’t about to pretend I was something I wasn’t.

And there wasn’t a chance in hell any pack who wanted me would expect to see me in a suit.

“And Thomas,” Katarina gestured to the man on the end whose scent reminded me vaguely of hot copier paper, “is one of the Vice Presidents of Slate City Bank.” She looked at me. “Do you have any questions?”

I stared down popcorn guy. “Katarina sent you my file, correct?”